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Questionings 

By 
Alberta Johnston Denis 






Copyright, 1920 

by 

Alberta Johnston Denis 



Press Tjf 

Times - Mirror Printing 

and Binding House 

©CI.A559 687 ^'^^^ 

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To 
George 



QUESTIONINGS 

Oh! Soul, thou dweller for a little space 

In this poor body: 

Canst not remember whence thou hast come? 

Canst not return 

When once the knot, albeit such a thread, 

Is cut? 

Art thou the Ego, 

And ask I but myself? 

Or, art thou something other? 

Am I not thee? 

Am 1 but mortal, all? 

Dost leave the me when thou betak'st thyself 

Some other where? 

Or, do I, myself, depart with thee, 

Am thee, in fact? 

Do I then leave this body with the breath, 

Nor give a thought to all the while 

That 1, if I am thee, the Soul, 

Have dwelt therein? 

Or, do I linger, knowing all, 

When throbbing ceases, 

Feeling, seeing all that passes. 

And hearing, as it falls, the clod, 

When "Dust to dust" is said? 



THE FAR AWAY LAND 

Swathed in a mist of life that is lived 

Is the land of Far Away. 

It is one of the numberless "Isles of the Past' 

Where Phoebus rose high in glad array, 

In gold and purple with streamers gay, 

To spread his gleams for a joyous day. 

The misty isle was the "Isle of Sighs", 

The storm driven one was "Tears", 

The gay little dot was childhood's spot, 

Hedged round with kisses and fears. 

But the glorious one with golden haze. 

Ah ! that was the "Isle of my Youth". 

A very fair land was that "Far Away Land", 
As I look through the vista of years. 

Now I live on a strip of wind-swept shore; 

I gaze at the setting sun. 

For me the "Isles of the Past" are no more. 

My earth-day is almost done. 

But I've work to do on this wind-swept shore 

Where the swirling sand beats in my eyes, 

And birds of ill omen hover o'er. 

And the wind outrivals their cries. 

The wind-swept shore is nothing but Life, 

Or so it appears to me. The sand and the gale. 

And the birds with their wail, 

All stand for hurry and strife. 

Tho' still in my mind to ease the pain 

Is the land of Far Away, 

All bright and shining and free from stain. 

With never a cloud and never a rain. 



1 couldn't go back if I wanted to ; 

I wouldn't go back if I could; 

For, perhaps, 'tis a circle of Life I tread, 

And beyond that sun so coppery red, 

I shall find once more the "Isles of the Past' 

My spot in the "Far Away Land" at last, 

When the riddle called "Life" is done. 



THE ISLAND OF LOVE 

Oh! where 

Out there 

Is the "Island of Love"? 

Is that what you ask of me? 

You may look till you are blind, 

You never will find 

An "Island of Love" in the sea. 

From the earth beneath to the stars above, 

There is love 

Everywhere. 

So — there isn't an "Island of Love" 

Out there! 



LOVE EVERYWHERE 

You will find it along 

The work-a-day road, 

In the hustling crowds that throng, 

In alleys and slums, amid gutter-snipes. 

In music divine, or the lilt of Pan's pipes, 

Of a kind 

You will find 

It is there 

Everywhere. 

Rushing and gurgling streams sing the song; 
It is old, it is new, it is short, it is long. 
It's the same 
In Love's name, 
It's the song. 

In country, in town, in every place, 

In every heart, in every face, 

There is love 

I am sure; 

It cannot be bought; 

It may be sought 

And won. 

And none, 

Whatever the kind, is bad. 

It is sad; 

It is pity, full oft. 

Divine in its birth, 
There is nothing on Earth 
Like Love — 
And it's there 
Everjrwhere. 



THE ISLAND OF JEALOUSY 

Jealousy's Isle was an ugly spot, 

As it lay in its sea of blood. 

Foul murder, and lies, and smothered cries, 

Its flotsam and jetsam, like sneaking spies, 

Came in with its tide at the flood. 



10 



MODERN IMAGISM 

A little brown bird 
On the window sill, 
Spreading his wings; 
Hear! how he sings! 
But, now and again, 
With his little brown bill, 
He is oiling his feathers. 

Black eyes naught fearing, 

Bright eyes oft peering; 

Head to one side, 

Now, to the other; 

Preening, and ruffing and fluffing. 

And yet — 

He is only oiling his feathers! 



11 



THE HEART OF A ROSE 

Could 1 but know, 
In just plain prose, 
Does anything beat 
In the heart of a rose? 
For, oh! 

The heart of a rose, 
Of a red, red rose, 
Is so sweet! 
Could I but know! 

Could I but know! 
Beloved, dear. 
Have you a heart 
Where it ought to be? 
— You heart of a rose, 
Of a red, red rose, 
To me! 
Could I but know! 

Could I but know! 
Sometimes — Ah! Well — 
I doubt it is there, 
I cannot tell. 
For, Oh! 

The heart of a rose. 
Of a red, red rose. 
Is so sweet! 
Could I but know! 



12 



LIFE, THE GREAT PROCESSION 

Neither beginning nor end is seen; 

On and on it goes, 

The great procession; 

Limitless ! 

Whence has it come, 

Or where will end? 

That no one knows. 

It moves 

Unceasingly ; 
Never a pause! 
The pace for some is fast, 
For some is slow ; 
And some there be who faint 
Or fall. 

But, whether slow or fast, 
The individual speed, 
Without concern, the whole 
Moves on. 

Moves on. 



13 



For, underneath it all 
Is Time, 

The Wheel, 
Which, turning, 

turning — 
Carries all alike ; 
No stop, no pause. 
Not swift, not slow, 
But ever, ever on, and on 
It moves 

Unceasingly. 



14 



THE TORREY PINES 

The soft west wind from off the sea 

Frivolled across the mesa, 

Over miles of blossoming yellow sage 

Heavy honey laden. 

I close my eyes; it all comes back to me; 

I feel the phantom, fluttering, furtive air; 

I sense the honey. 

Above the sea, austere and bar^ 

I see the mountains. 

Shadows amethystine, a haze the high light dims 

And mellows rugged peaks. 

All ruddy crimson, down the West, the Sun 

Sinks in the sea. 

Aloft, above the hills. 

The round full Moon in golden glory glides 

All space, 

The changing, evanescent, evening false light fills. 

And there 

Against the sky, 

Etched by a giant hand, all inky black 

The Torrey Pines; 

While overhead the Moon, now purest silver, shines. 



15 



THE RIDGE ROAD 

Twisting, turning 
— Like some live thing — 
The long, long road goes up and up; 
At last, the summit: around 
A wilderness — a wilderness of color, 
Evading, all pervading, not tangible, 
Rose, pink and violet; over all 
A veil, a haze of blue, is cast. 
Beneath the veil, pastel; but, shadowy dark 
And purple, in the depths; 
Where sun tips higher points, is orange. 
In somber spots, far in some canyon cleft, 
Lurks indigo. 

The sky, behind the outline of the ridge, pale green, 
— A Chinese celadon — shading, changing, 
Until at zenith, blue. 
On winds the road 

Giving in itself the thought of motion, 
Rushing down the grade. 
Flashing past a salt marsh, white and green, 
Abordered sparingly with feathery trees, 
Aglimmer in the sun. 



16 



On, on, untij we find a valley, 

Nesting high among the hill tops. 

The road sweeps on, 

— And leaves us there — 

Up, up and up again, high over mountain pass. 

And then, — for us, — is lost. 

We pitch our little camp, 

And, all around, and all the while, and everywhere, 

The gray-green flowering plants, star-petaled, yellow, 

Are waving back and forth, and to and fro. 

Behind are mountains in full shade. 

The western sun below their crests. 

Veiled, over all, with misty haze of blue 

Far down in front, a lake; 

The slopes of brown hills curved around 

Slip down to water's side: 

They meet and — kiss. 

High overhead the sky serene, 

— Pretending not to see — looks on. 

While all around, and all the while, and everywhere. 

The gray-green flowering plants, star-petaled, yellow, 

Are waving back and forth — 

Are waving to and fro. 



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